


Burial

by KaenOkami



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Canon - Manga, Child Abuse, Family Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Medical Experimentation, Memory Alteration, Mild Gore, Misgendering, Murder, Starvation, Torture, reverb 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaenOkami/pseuds/KaenOkami
Summary: The road back to complacency is a long and painful one.





	1. Awakening

Once again, Crona was floating in the darkness.

It was a familiar feeling, by now. As familiar as home.

How many times...They’d lost count. How many times, over the turbulent course of their short life, have they sunk down into this place? A little different at the moment, to be sure. In _that room,_ even as their head spun and faded lighter by the second, even as they lost sensation in their body, from their fingertips and toes right up into their heart, the feeling of the room around them was the most overwhelming thing in the world. Everything was too cold and too hard, and they couldn’t see but could still see how the walls pressed in on them and pushed back out again, over and over. Dizzying, suffocating, barely alleviated by the faint and feverish sleep they passed in and out of, with no way to tell whether it was day or night, or how many of each had gone by.

_How long has it been...?_

Now, however...They couldn’t feel anything solid around them, or hear anything at all. Their skull was filled with roiling fog, and there was a sickly-sweet taste in their mouth. All of these put together could only mean being drugged, medication, experiments. And the fact that they could put these things together, even with their thoughts slowed to a crawl and running together like this, could in turn only mean that they were waking up from whatever they’d been injected with or forced to inhale now.

“Wake up.”

_I don’t remember...What is she...?_

She. The word, unusually, caused a snarl of confusion in the middle of their brain. There was only one person in their life, isn’t there? Only one pair of eyes, narrowed serpentine slits of gold, that locked onto them and bored inside them, never letting go?

So why...Why was there this lingering image, wavy and faint like a photograph under dingy water, of another pair? Wide green eyes, bright, so bright, they couldn’t -- 

“Wake up.”

Wake up. They wondered whether that was something they wanted to do. It was a regular question for them, in the passing through wakefulness and sleep. The frisson of fear -- older and more familiar a companion than even Ragnarok -- that ran over their skin, as awareness started to creep back into them like frost, was the final indicator of which darkness holds them here. 

_I want to stay...It doesn't hurt..._

Darkness...It was getting lighter, on and around their body, like deep night into cold dawn. As always, it was about now that they felt their stomach start to churn. 

They were floating. Disconnected, from both body and self. 

_It's better this way...Can’t I...?_

“Crona.”

A name, their name...Darkness as well.

It was not a call, no mother’s gentle coax into wakefulness. It was a command. The thought of blocking it out or wriggling away did not cross their mind; even if it did, they would not be capable of that anyway. Even so, it still felt like a hook piercing and ensnaring their heart.

_Can't I stay...?_

“Crona. I know you can hear me.”

Louder, clearer...Or was it just that they could hear a little better? It didn't matter. They must answer, obey. Somehow.

They tried to move -- just to twitch, even, if nothing else. Their body, which they still couldn’t feel fully, did not respond. 

They tried to speak. They felt themself swallow, but couldn’t find their lips or mouth. 

Their eyes, then. Eyelids, just. They supposed those were the last option left to them. They turned out to be easy enough to manage, though their brain hadn’t fully caught up with them yet. They squeezed them shut tighter, just for a second, before trying to push them open. They turned out to flutter open, instead; it seemed that they were still more dazed than they thought.

They could not see the room, only its colors and vague ideas of shapes. Distant grays and blacks and spots of white that whirled and spiraled like whatever was in their head: in and out, in and out. The air around them was icy cold, and seemed almost to vibrate. They were breathing, they could feel it, and that cold was raw and tingling on their throat and in their nose -- 

“Look at me, Crona.”

It took them longer than it should have to obey the command. They turned their neck and their head flopped to the side, as if their neck is broken. And waiting there...Yes, there they were. The golden eyes, and their familiar burn. In a different form, perhaps, one that was tiny and soft where she had once been tall, sharp, and steely. The change was something that they knew, logically, should be startling to them, but somehow was not.

Medusa laughed, light and self-satisfied, and the sound made something clench tight in their gut. Her voice, at least, was _exactly_ as they remembered it was supposed to be. “Good boy. You look a little confused. Do I look different to you?”

They nodded, slowly and dumbly. _How did it happen? I know I know how...But why don’t I remember it?_

“Do you know why?”

At that? They could only stare. They tried to reach back for the memory...But it was no good, that was all darkness as well. It hurt. 

They whimpered, and Medusa snickered again. She wasn't paying attention to them any more, not really, instead focusing on taking the IV tubes out of their wrists. They made no noise at this, anymore, though they wondered vaguely what was in the near-empty bags. Nor were they surprised that they’re currently laid out on a metal operating table. It seemed that they’d been there so long that the steel had turned warm under their body. 

“That’s a no, then?” she said casually. “I expected that. You were badly damaged on your last assignment. Nearly broken. Don’t worry about it, though; this new serum I’ve been testing on you seems to have you just about back to normal.”

“Oh...” The sound came out of their mouth without thinking, and they had to focus very hard on the tiny movements of lips, tongue, and throat to get any more out. “I...d-don’t remember be...being hurt.”

“Of course you don’t. No need to dwell on it. That would only make it worse for you.” 

She was taking off...straps, now? Around their arms and legs and waist. Now _that_ was strange; why would she need to do that? They hadn’t struggled enough to need things like that since they were little. Finishing that, Medusa hopped off the table, looking up at them expectantly. 

“Now. We’re done with that, why don’t you get off there and go say hello to Free and Eruka? They’ve been rather worried about the progress of this experiment, and in any case, we’ll all be preparing for a new mission soon, anyway.”

Crona stared for a moment, as the words and their meaning sunk in. They didn't quite get it: what would those two have to be concerned about? 

_(“It’s time to come back, Crona!”)_

Back...from where? What had they been doing? And why would they need to be told so insistently? They knew better. A simple order would --

Right. A simple order, like the one they were staring slack-jawed at Medusa instead of following. They squirmed like a bug on its back on the table, taking a minute to wake up all their limbs. Even after they were able to make their way down onto the ground, they still had to grab on to the edge of the table with one hand to steady themself. Something in their chest trembled, and their legs felt like spaghetti as they tried to stay standing. The shakiness passed after a moment of stillness, as they tensed their muscles from shoulders to feet. 

It was something they were used to doing, after a long time spent confined or under examination. Or both, as the case often was.

Seeing that her child was, more or less, fit to be put back into action, Medusa started across the flat stone floor and back up the stairs.

“Come, then,” she said, absently jerking a hand over her shoulder to beckon them along.

Unnecessarily, really. Crona was already following listlessly at her heels, up the winding staircase. As the two of them near the top few stairs, they felt their heart start to beat faster, and wondered why that could be. They'd never seen this hideout before, have they? Nothing could have happened here, not like the lab in their mother’s castle, their true home --

_(“They'll let you move out of there soon. You'll have a real home with us before you know -- !”)_

Crona blinked. 

_Who was that? A girl? But I don't know any girls...I don't know how to deal with talking to girls --_

“Crona!”

They jumped, almost tripping back down the stairs. Their head snapped around to see who was talking, and were more surprised than they think they really should be to see Eruka standing there. Blue hair instead of ashy blonde, an orange dress instead of black --

_...What? Who is -- ?_

“Uh, uh...A-Are you feeling okay, Crona?” Eruka ventured, her head twitching nervously up and down, between Crona and Medusa. Free was towering behind her like a bodyguard, arms crossed tight. There was a look on the werewolf’s face that Crona had never seen on him before, and that they could not quite put a name to. 

Nor could they quite understand the odd twist to their mother’s smile as she turned to look and see their response. “You can answer her, Crona. It’s all right.”

Oh. In that case...They didn’t think they felt any different than they normally did, right? They swallowed, but couldn’t quite make their mouth work; they didn’t know how to deal with talking right now, with three pairs of eyes staring, piercing straight through their chest. In the maybe half a second between their deciding to just nod and hope that would be deemed acceptable, and their actually performing the action, there was the familiar burst of pain down their spine.

“Who cares about you?!” Ragnarok squealed, batting at Crona’s head and shoulders with his...tiny puff hands? What happened to those giant wrecking ball fists? “You’re just the same as always, why did you even need to think about it? What you should be thinking about is, what about _me?!”_

“Ah...Are you okay, Ragnarok?” Crona echoed obediently, trying to turn their head around enough to get a good look. “What happened to you? I don’t know if I can deal with you being small all the time -- _Ouch!”_

"Oh, _you_ don’t think you can deal with it?!”

“That’s enough, Ragnarok.” Medusa’s command was soft and unruffled. “You have nothing to worry about. Once you’re back on a steady diet, you should grow back to your normal size in due time.”

“But what happened to you?” Crona asked again. They determinedly looked only at Ragnarok, though it bared their face for more of his outraged tugging and punching; no way could they look into their mother’s face instead. “How did you get like that?”

“I’ll tell you! It was all _your_ fault -- !”

_“Ragnarok.”_ The new edge in Medusa’s tone made both of them freeze, automatically turning to look at her. “It doesn’t matter now. It will all be fixed. But I _do_ find myself curious...Crona, what _is_ the last thing you remember?”

“Um...” 

Their heart beat even faster, and the ache in the back of their skull became even more pronounced. They had been asked a direct question and to not provide a clear answer was absolutely grounds for punishment. Even so, the fact remained that no matter how they racked their brain, they simply could not remember a thing. Darkness, of course, still so much of that. But a black haze rather than something solid and crushing...the sensation of their body moving, of being in many different places, and of everything seeming very fast and very slow all at once. _That_ made their stomach curl up uncomfortably tight; it certainly didn’t feel like anything good had happened, whatever all that was. That didn’t matter. If they were being asked for a concrete image...

“I-I think...We were in a basement somewhere.”

“Is that so?” Medusa’s eyes narrowed, in the way that betrayed deep concentration rather than anger. “Do you remember where?”

“N-No...No, I don’t think so. It was big...A-and it wasn’t too dark, but it wasn’t bright either...And you, I think you told me to wait down there, because people would be coming that I needed to kill.”

They felt as though there must have been something else to that. But that couldn’t be right -- or, at the very least, it didn’t matter -- because their mother was smiling, so something in there must have been a correct answer. 

“Yes, that was the site of your last mission. When your opponents arrived, you were yet again defeated in battle. I’ve had to spent months helping you recover from your injuries, but no matter. You will make up for the time you’ve wasted during your training. We will need to pick back up where you left off rather than beginning the new set I had had in mind just yet, but that may be for the best anyhow.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

They weren’t sure why their usual tone made Medusa snicker like that, but they supposed if they had managed to put her in a good mood, it didn’t matter. “Very good. Incidentally, Crona, how _are_ you feeling?”

Crona blinked. The last time Medusa had seriously asked that of them, it had been close to ten years ago, when they had woken up to find Ragnarok sticking out of their back for the first time. Had something that big actually happened?

_Well...I guess it doesn’t matter, if I don’t even remember it._

“I feel fine. When are we going home, ma’am?”


	2. Mother Knows Best

As it turned out, the answer to that was “at the break of dawn the next morning.”

The sense of familiarity that washed over Crona when they stepped through the threshold into the castle that they had been raised in was comforting. It almost drowned out the chill that made the hairs on the back of their neck raise, and some trace of their black blood tingle in their veins. Eruka and Free were given directions to their room and then left to their own devices, and Crona expected to be given the same orders. They didn't think that they'd earned anything more, after a mission they'd apparently failed so badly they'd lost their memory of it, and the ache lingered in their muscles.

But this turned out to be one of the rare occasions in which they were rewarded upon their return. Medusa tugged on their sleeve, in the way that at her normal height she would grip their shoulder or jerk their wrist to make them follow her. She led them down the halls to the kitchen near the back, a room so tiny compared to the vastness of the rest of the castle, where she sets about dragging a step stool up to the counter and boiling a small pot of water on the stove. Crona sat down at the dark wood table, just then realizing that their stomach was empty and aching with hunger. 

(Such a feeling was so familiar to them, that they barely noticed it until it had dropped them flat on the ground, unable to get up without the world spinning in five different directions.)

Medusa started putting together dinner for two -- pasta, meat sauce, pan-fried vegetables -- and all the while explaining to Crona what was to happen from now on. She had been “damaged” on the same mission that had claimed Crona’s memories, and had had to flee and inhabit the body of a human to survive. Their mission had succeeded regardless, however: Kishin Asura was free, and his madness was coating the Earth once more.

“No doubt you’ve felt that already, though.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Crona responded automatically, but the truth was that they hadn’t noticed. The black fog, the static buzz that rattled the inside of their skull, those were still there, at the same intensity that they always had been. They did wonder idly whether everyone else felt the same as they did now, and whether it was easier or harder for them to deal with it. But they also supposed that they were so close to Kishin already, that it didn’t affect their state of mind now whether madness reigned over the world or not. 

...Close, but apparently not close enough for their mother to maintain her focus on cultivating their growth instead of reverting back to her backup plan. They...didn’t quite know what was going on around them all of the time, so often did they go away inside themself, but they weren’t stupid. They knew perfectly well only one full-fledged Kishin was required, so if Asura were revived, it would make they themself obsolete. But for some inscrutable reason, they were alive. They were _home,_ even. So they must have another purpose that they weren’t privy to before. Somehow they weren’t looking forward to finding out what. 

“Crona? Are you listening to me?”

“Huh? Oh, y-yes, ma’am.”

Their mother went on. The next phase of their mission was to deal with an unintended side effect of the increased levels of madness: the revival of her elder sister.

“Arachne,” Crona murmured without thinking about it. An image floated into their mind, unbidden, of a towering woman in a flowing black dress. Laughing delicately, at them...At them? But why? They had never known their aunt.

Medusa smirked. “You remember, then. What little I've said about her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Medusa, Free, and Eruka had just about finalizing the plans for their next mission: the three of them would set out tomorrow morning, infiltrate Arachne’s cult and kill her, and then return with whatever spoils they could find, to continue with the next phases of their goal and of Crona’s training. They were surprised at the last words, but they did not speak. They supposed they would find out when they were meant to find out.

“When I come back home, I’ll have a proper body again, if not one _exactly_ like my original. And I’ll have yanked out one nine-hundred-year-old thorn in my side once and for all.”

“Yes, ma’am.” This sort of clarification, they guessed, couldn’t hurt. “What would you have me do, in the meantime?”

Medusa smiled, taking a plate of food and bringing it up to them. “You will rest and recover tonight. Then tomorrow morning, you’ll go down to the second floor holding room. I trust you’ll understand what to do from there.”

Crona nodded, taking the fork stuck into the spaghetti and winding it around into a small bite. They have learned to eat carefully, even when all they wanted to do was desperately grab all the food they could get their hands on and cram it into their mouth, or risk being berated and having the plate swept away from under them. Besides, it seemed like they felt more full if they ate slowly, anyway. 

Medusa brought her own plate over, but did not start in on it yet, watching Crona intently from across the table. They did not meet her eyes, but there was still some small part of them that wondered what was going on inside her head, when she looked at them like this: not with disappointment, but with interest, satisfaction, perhaps even a trace of pride. Usually, they stopped at wondering. But today seemed to be one of the rare occasions that their mother made her personal thoughts known.

“You know I have very high expectations for you, Crona. And you know that I have faith in you to meet them, don’t you?”

“I do,” Crona said, very much doubting that.

“Good boy. Build your strength back up, then we can pick right back up where we left off. Before the week is out, we’ll both return to where we’re supposed to be.”

Crona lifted their head to look her in the eyes, against their better judgment. Their whole life, they had feared looking into those eyes, just as cold and flinty as any real snake’s; in fourteen years -- or was it fifteen? They were never sure exactly of their age -- that fear had never abated. Even that praise, even such a rare and sought-after thing, sent a frisson of fear through their spindly body.

“Yes, Lady Medusa.”

~0~

Every night, they went to their bed yearning for a deep and dreamless sleep. And every night, they got the exact opposite.

Their nightmares were not the standard fare, tonight. Instead of being lost in a smoggy sea of red and black, hunted by tiny shrieking monsters, with three eyes each and luridly colored bodies, it was as if they were floating through a world that was not their own. Faces that they had never seen but looked familiar, voices they had never heard but whose words they knew before they were said. 

When they woke, sore and exhausted after a night full of tossing and turning, they were surprised to find themself in their own bedroom. The small, square area and the flat stone walls were the same, as was the window up near the ceiling. But they were brought up short by the placement of that window: wasn’t it supposed to be on the other wall, and not have those bars on it? And their bed...Wasn’t it -- ?

They realized with a bad jolt what they were thinking, and couldn’t fathom why. This was their room. This was their home. They had never known anything else. 

Still, it took a long while of them lying on their back on that hard mattress, staring wearily up at the high ceiling, before they could summon the will to get up and shuffle out of the room, to go to the kitchen to get a small breakfast. They had no appetite -- in fact, they felt vaguely nauseous -- but they knew they had to force down what they were given; there was no guarantee of when more would come. The massive corridors were entirely silent as they trudged down them, without even a tiny snake to be seen; everyone seemed to have already departed. Whenever they were home alone, Medusa would leave them with exactly enough food to last them until she returned and no more, and it was their responsibility to figure out what that amount was and ration themself accordingly. 

Crona neither hurried nor stalled in getting to their work, but it wasn’t long at all before they made their way to the room Medusa had indicated. They weren’t normally permitted to help with experiments, but they were every so often sent to fetch supplies from somewhere, and in any case, they knew their way around their own home. 

This was one of the larger storage rooms in the place, and as they stopped for a moment in front of the heavy steel door, they thought they could hear muffled clinking and scratching noises. They gripped their elbow reflexively at the familiar ripple of pain over their shoulders and down their arm, as their sword materialized in their free hand.

Ragnarok was not the wide-bladed greatsword that they remembered it being, when the little weapon had been his normal size. Instead, it was a narrow longsword. They wondered why they weren't surprised at the new shape, then decided it didn't matter. A blade was a blade, its task did not change. 

They pushed open the door, and the low scraping sound of it against the floor set off a din of hisses, screeches, and barks from inside. The smell of dander and waste stains hit their nostrils. Cages. The room was filled with nothing but cages of all different sizes, their wire doors opened, for the dogs, cats, rabbits, all manner of animals smaller than themself. They can see ribs sticking out, furless patches that showed off cracked skin, and bleeding gums. 

“Gu-pi-pi...How lame,” Ragnarok said sourly, lip curling and tongue hanging out anyway. “Animal souls are no good for eating.”

“Don’t complain, Ragnarok. At least you _can_ eat them.”

Crona barely saw the animals, either scampering or limping around them. They saw themself instead, lifting their sword, as if separate, floating from above. No thoughts, now, they reminded themself. As always. No thoughts. Just move, and cut, and soon they would be able to be still and retreat fully inside themself. 

_Go ahead, Crona._ Of course they knew Medusa wasn't actually there to whisper in their ear, but it made no difference. _Kill them. You will become the Kishin._

They moved, barely feeling their own legs, into the dark and the scent of blood. It was easier than stalking the streets of some city, especially when the door swung shut behind them. There was only the dark, and the motion of their arms, and the numb sensation of Ragnarok swinging through the air and his blade hitting home to cleave pelt and muscle and bone like melted butter. Their weapon slurped up each soul as they went, with the gaping lips between hilt and blade.

Eyes, yellow and red and iridescent, flashed before them. 

There were screams. Of course there were, there always were, of so many kinds. But all they could hear was the static roaring in their ears.

~0~

Crona didn’t know how long it was until they were finished. They crossed the room lethargically, the blood spattered and puddled on the floor sticking with every step. When they pulled open the door to leave, they did not look back to see their work illuminated in the bright white light. 

(The sight would be familiar and uninteresting, they told themself. That was why they didn’t look. Not that they didn't want to feel their heart twist, not again.)

It was easy to lose themself in the necessary tasks that came next. Walk back down the hall, to the tiny bathroom off of their bedroom. Peel off the thick clothes plastered to their skin with blood. Put themself under the weak, icy cold water of the shower until the blood and flesh and fur are all washed away, before they can start to dry into their skin and hair and become _impossible_ to get out. And all the while that feeling of disconnect, of floating, never seemed to go away. They had thoughts, they knew they did, but their entire brain felt cloudy and blank.

It might have been minutes or hours before they were finished. They didn’t know and didn’t see how it mattered. 

They would have gladly spent the rest of the time until their mother’s return in this haze. Lying on their back on their unmade bed, staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing and wishing they truly were nothing. 

But they came out of the shower to notice something on their nightstand -- bare and empty except for a medicine bottle and a water glass -- that they hadn’t before. A note, in their mother’s thin, winding handwriting.

_Crona -_

_When you’ve finished in the holding room, you may return to a milder training regimen. Practice your swordplay and take your pills, morning and night. Remember the taste of blood. You will have a greater fill when I rejoin you, I promise. It shouldn’t be long._

They stared at the note for a long time, reading and rereading it, until Ragnarok burst out to jar them out of their trance.

“What, are you dumb? Give me that!” he squealed, snatching it, reading it over, and then throwing it over his shoulder to the floor. “How stupid! Take us to the kitchen, I’m still hungry!”

“We can’t do that. You can’t eat all our food in one day,” Crona heard themself say. They took the bottle, shook out one of the little red and white pills, and downed it dry. It was one of their more well-ingrained habits by now; they had been taking the black blood enhancements since meeting Ragnarok. “Besides, she said we have to train.”

“Who cares? She’s gone! She won’t know if we don’t!”

“She’ll know.” They didn’t know _how_ Medusa always knew when they were disobedient. But she did, all the same. “When has she ever not?”

“Tch. Fine. We’ll do it _your_ way.” 

Without further grumbling, Ragnarok flowed back into the sword in Crona’s hand. For the rest of the day, they threw themself into their forms, from the basics learned in toddlerhood with a wooden toy, to the ducking and weaving they relied on now. It was all they were normally allowed, anyway -- really, all they knew. They didn’t mind, especially so long as the only thing the black blade cut through was stale air. It was something almost comforting, something they could so easily lose themself in. Block everything else out with. Whichever it turned out to be.

Gods only knew, they needed _that._


	3. Descent

Medusa returned looking more like herself than Crona realized they’d been expecting. Even so, they couldn’t seem to keep from staring at the parts that were even more different than before: midnight-black hair, gold eyes whose gaze shimmered instead of froze, the thin black webbing that spread over her face now and again, that she had to take a minute to fight down. 

(The time frame of the latter grew shorter with each occurrence, however, and their mother’s soft, smug laughter only became more pronounced. They did not ask what particular difficulties, exactly, came with the theft of a Gorgon body; by now they knew better than to wonder.)

Despite her mild assurance that they were likely still alive, Eruka and Free had not returned to the castle with Medusa,and there was no indication that they would anytime soon. Things had returned to the way they were before...Before?

Something poked at the very center of Crona’s brain, in a way that they did not like one bit. Before the mission to Arachnophobia, right? Had to be. So what was this sense -- not like instinct, something closer to the surface -- that there was another thing that they were _missing --_

“Crona.”

The sudden cold of Medusa’s fingertips gripping their chin felt like a lightning bolt straight through their body; though they knew their mother disapproved they couldn’t stop themself from jumping and yelping. Medusa’s eyes narrowed, but she did not comment on it. 

“Are you paying attention to me?”

Well, they were now, so it would not be a lie and thus not a punishable offense. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Repeat what I just told you, then.”

Crona gulped. “W...W-Well -- ”

_“I’ll_ repeat it all, then. I saw you completed your first task thoroughly. Ragnarok, are you feeling stronger after those souls?”

Ragnarok snorted. “A _bit._ You couldn’t have left us even _one_ human?”

“Exactly what I was getting at, before I realized Crona was lost in space,” Medusa said with a smirk. “How did it feel, Crona? Did you get what I wanted to give you?”

Crona blinked slowly. They supposed that they must have, even if they couldn’t quite put words to the feeling. “Yes, I did. I...I am ready to continue.”

“Then come with me.”

They had never been in true danger of death, as far as they knew. They did not know the last walk of the condemned one, to kneel before the executioner’s blade. But, they figured, this was close enough, this walk that they had taken too many times. Down the halls, bright as operating room lights and so unearthly white and clean that it was like no one lived here at all. Over the cold marble floors, on which neither of their feet make the slightest sound. To the perfectly square room at the end of the final hall, with one open entryway on one side, and a closed white door with a small golden lock, that seemed as if it could melt into the identically colored walls.

Medusa took her usual position in the corner nearest to the entryway, arms crossed and tail idly twitching. Her days of guiding their hand were long past. Her only purpose here now was to watch.

The second they stepped into the room, Crona’s eyes roved towards the only spot of color in it: the figures at the center, bound and gagged and wriggling like a worm on hot concrete, only harder once it sees Medusa and Crona walk in. There’s two...no, three. 

(They were permitted to think “human,” but they certainly have long since been trained out of thinking “like me,” “like us.”)

Instantly their vision blurred like a rewinding videotape, and time seemed to gather in a fog around them that slowed, slowed, slowed. 

Fine. Fine. But they did not want to hear. They did not want to look. Over the years, their mind has molded to these thoughts, allowed them to fall into the noise and the static that took them away from it all.

Maybe there was begging, pleading, bargaining, through the thick wet towel tied in its mouth. They had learned long ago to block it all out. It made no difference, not to any of them. The blade lifted in front of them, up above their head with two hands, a chill running up the bones of both their arms. It was simple now, just one swift, decisive swing to sever the head, and this would be over. It would be over and they could walk away and descend back into the black static.

So why...

_(...ka! Guard!)_

Why...

_(But if I guard, you’ll die!)_

Why was the screaming in their head demanding that they stop, instead of push forward?

“Crona, are you stupid?!” Ragnarok squealed. “Kill it! I'm _hungry,_ let me at its soul!”

Crona’s heart skipped a beat, and their body moved out of sheer panic. The sword flew down and cleaved through a thick, sinewy neck. Blood sprayed out, warm and sticky on their skin and clothes, blindingly red on the white marble around them. Screams rose in their head, grating right over the top of their skull. A soul glowed before them, but not for long.

“Now _this_ is more like it! Get the others!”

They raised the sword again, stepped forward into the blood. The screaming shrilled louder, the remaining two figures struggled harder. But this time, when they looked...There were eyes, wide and bloodshot and so bright with fear. Green and red and...No, when they blinked it was blue and brown, what was...

“Crona.”

Their mother’s voice was low and soft, like the padding of a panther about to leap. Every part of their body went cold. 

“Why don’t you finish this, Crona?”

They were frozen, clutching Ragnarok’s hilt in a shaking hand. They could not tear their gaze away from those eyes, could start to really hear the voices --

_“Crona.”_

Medusa had never laid a hand on them to harm them, as she was so fond of reminding them. But the word was a long steel needle straight through their brain, and a whimper slipped out of their mouth. Disobedience was not an option. 

The sword came down, once, twice. Stillness. Dark blood, gushing slowly. The screaming dulls back into static. They stood there, unable to move; they didn’t hear Medusa stalking up behind them but they felt her approach all the same, until her nails were digging into the place between their neck and shoulder as she took hold of them.

“You disappoint me,” she hissed. “I've asked myself this question since the day you were born, but perhaps you can answer it for me now: What makes you so _weak?”_

Their mouth had gone dry, and it worked itself without making a sound, like a fish out of water. They could hear Medusa gritting her teeth at their silence...their uselessness to her.

“How long must we do this before you learn your lesson, Crona?”

And before they could even think of an acceptable reply, Medusa was dragging them to the white door, opening it to the darkness within, and throwing them inside.

~0~

They have never tried to keep time in this place. The first time, they had been too young to think of anything like that, only of how badly they wanted their mother to come back for them. And when the idea had occurred to them, years later, they had seen no point. They could barely keep track of their own thoughts, how were they meant to count the seconds, minutes, hours, days? And it wasn't as if Ragnarok would bother to transform enough to put scratches into anything to mark them.

They wondered what such a thing would look like, after nearly ten years. They pictured this room covered with long and jagged lines gouged into it, by a sword not meant for simple scratches, in the brief flashes of light they get of it coming in and out. All the walls and all the floors. Every inch; nothing left untouched. Nothing left untainted. 

They raised their hands in front of them and for just a split second they saw it: their own limbs, flashing in silvery white, skin slashed to ribbons. Nothing left. There was nothing left.  
They felt their thin, cracking lips spread into a weak smile, and the weak ghost of a laugh starting to rattle up from their chest --

“Shut up!” Ragnarok’s voice never weakened, nor did the little fists drumming against their skull feel any less like solid iron. “This is your fault! Can’t you do anything right? Why’d you hold back?!”

They couldn’t answer even if they could put together a sentence in their head. There was an image there, instead...The boy again. Shorter than them. Weaker, they knew for sure, though they didn’t know how. Everything from the red of his eyes, to his pale and angular cheekbones, to the white spikes of his hair and black edge of his arm, said _sharp._ They were afraid to touch him, to meet those eyes, but when his voice came, dark and terse -

_Hey, Crona. You should eat your food._

Their mouth worked without their thinking about it. Their head felt like a stone, pinning them down to the floor, but their body and brain were weightless. Their tongue hung out of their mouth, as dry as if they’d spent this past eternity eating sand. They’d vomited twice, first their last meal, then just bile, and the smell still lingered near their nose. 

It didn’t help to tell themself that it would be okay, that it would end eventually as all things did. It wasn’t okay. They didn’t know what ‘okay’ really meant, they didn’t --

Now the girl. Again the girl. Who was...?

_It's all right now. It's all right..._

A spasm ran through their body that had nothing to do with their cramping muscles. The dark pressed in, the silence drilled into their ears, and they felt their mind spinning away from them, further and further. The black fog, heavy like a physical thing, was there again, holding everything down, suffocating them. But unlike all the other times, things were coming back up in its place, like corks floating and bobbing in a bucket of water. Sometimes it was the other boy, with a voice like booming thunder and strong, calloused hands that slam down and grip too tight.

_Crona! If anyone starts messing with you, just let me know! I'll beat the shit out of them!_

They had been afraid of him, too, at first. They hadn't known that such power could be used to protect instead of wreak destruction. But at first. Before they’d understood that power could be used to protect instead of destroy, that smiles and watchful eyes could feel like an aura of safety around their body instead of the ice-cold needle that pierced their soul.

_But who?!_

Other times it was the woman. Black and gold and always looking them in the eyes...But familiar as that was, they had only ever felt warmed by it. Safe...

_When...?_

But more than ever it was the girl. 

The bright green fire in her eyes, burning strong and pure, as she spun the scythe larger than herself like it was an art.

_Your soul is mine!_

Arms, hands, so tight and unshakeable but gentle and warm. They wrap around them and all at once they know they never want to be set free of them.

_It's not that you don't know how to deal with anyone._

“Ah...”

_It's that no one ever took the time to deal with you._

Oh... _Oh_...The merging of one soul with another. Healing like the clearest water pouring over their body, to wash away all the blood. They can almost hear the soft wash of the ocean up onto the hot sand.

_Who are you?_

A smile, not a smirk. An offer, not an order. 

_Will you let me be your friend, Crona?_

“Ma...”

Ragnarok scoffed. “Quit crying for your mama, dipshit. She doesn’t give a fuck, you know that.”

“N...No...I-I...”

It was a struggle to breathe by this point, let alone speak. But they knew what they were trying to say, they _knew --_

It always took them by surprise when the lock clicked and the door creaked open again, even if they were unable to respond in that way, lying on the floor like a dying dog.

Their mother’s silhouette in the bright doorway loomed over them. “You’ve now wasted five days of our time, Crona. Are you going to make me do this again?”

They tried to manage a, “No, ma’am,” but they couldn’t make the sound come. They flopped their head weakly side to side. Medusa had seen the gesture enough times to understand what they were saying, and Crona understood what they were to do now. They forced their cramping muscles to work, forced their spindly limbs first to move then to support them as they got up. They shamble like a marionette, down the path of white light towards their mother. 

This is always how it would go. No surprises, when they step back onto the killing floor, no person there except them and their mother --

They freeze three steps out of the door. They blink in the light. It couldn’t be.

And -- 

It _couldn’t_ be.

“M...M-Maka?”

They could hear the smirk in Medusa’s voice. “So you do remember her. Interesting. It would appear my serum needs improvement.”

Crona barely heard her. They felt a hand go to their open mouth, their face contorted in horror. Their eyes were fixed on the girl on her back on the floor, hands and feet tied under her with thick rope, ashy blonde pigtails flying as she struggled, tears pouring from green eyes that --

Wait.

They blinked. The hair was a few shades too light and the tails too short. The eyes were more hazel than really green. Too tall, the long black jacket too small and the skirt too tight on her, the muscles near nonexistent...

It couldn't be Maka. And it wasn't. But even so...

“You've figured it out?” Medusa laid cool, thin fingers on their shoulder. “It's not Maka Albarn. But I got this one and made her up and I suppose she's close enough. So you may think of her as...Well. Whatever you like.”

They couldn't look at their mother. Their world had narrowed down to those huge green eyes and the rippling of Ragnarok under their skin. Their mind knew this was a stranger, no different than anyone else before. Their soul, on the other hand...

“Maka,” they bleated faintly. 

“You know who she is. You know _what_ she is. And so you know what must be done with her, Crona.”

Maka -- the girl -- let out a wail that would be earsplitting if not for the gag in her mouth. There was fear all over her, every bit of her. Would Maka ever make a sound like that? They remembered her voice...Yes. Yes, she had.

_But, Soul, if I guard you’ll die!_

They felt it again. The rushing of their veins, Ragnarok flowing into their hand. The hard and frozen ball in their chest, the unbearable tightness of it. But this time there was no snake twisted around their head to guide their hand. 

_These doors open inward._

They must protect themself. They _did_ know what must be done. 

_They only open one way._

Only one way to escape. Only one way for them to go, no other path existed for them.

They didn’t feel themself lunge. They didn’t hear themself scream. The next thing they knew, they were mere inches from the girl’s face, and Ragnarok’s blade had cleaved cleanly through her torso. Their eyes still could not let go of hers, as the light faded so fast from the green-gold. There is a renewed wailing in their ears, a soul-shredding sound of pure horror and grief. 

And for that moment, they were not in the white room. They were in a dark and cavernous place, empty and echoing and foreboding, and the doors only opened inward and against those doors lay a meister and weapon, in pieces too. Weak and dull, with lightless eyes and waxen skin and pale blue souls floating above their eviscerated chests.

There was no courage in this place. There was no warmth. None of that thing they had reached for, not realizing it was out of their grasp. 

This was what happened. This was who lived and who died and how life had to go on. They couldn’t take it any other way, they --

Their mother’s hands were on their arms again, to still their shaking body, and they didn't have to look to know that she was smiling. 

“Excellent work, Crona. I trust you'll know what to do, should you ever see dear Maka again.”

Crona turned to face her slowly, knowing that she would recognize the curl of their lip and the hateful narrow of their eyes as not being for her. Not truly.

“Who's _Maka?”_ they snarled. 

The corner of Medusa’s mouth jerked upward. “Why, you're correct, Crona: no one of any importance. Come. We’ll go have our dinner, you've more than earned it.”


	4. Restitution

It should have been so simple from there. Crona told themself it was simple. But for weeks upon weeks, it was a struggle to return to life.

They were not sent out to stalk the streets in search of souls. They were not given _anything_ more to kill, not even a rabbit. They were to be kept at home as the final stage of Medusa’s latest experiment commenced.

Even with the protection of the black blood inside them, augmented by their mother’s pills, apparently their body was still not strong enough. For the first time, they didn’t practice forms on their own.

“You’re still lacking.” 

They winced in response, pulling themself up off the solid concrete ground. If Ragnarok hardened their blood, it didn’t hurt as much when they were knocked to the floor, but still. 

“Yes, ma’am. Forgive me,” they said, staring up the length of the Vector Blade. In the brief time that they had seen her training with it while stuck inside that child-body, it had been short and almost comically wide. Now that she had replaced it with something more fitting, the blade had gone back to normal as well: a slender black longsword, sharp and slender and unforgiving just like its wielder.

Medusa narrowed her eyes, unimpressed at the automatic response. She ordered, “Get up. You’ll earn your forgiveness.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They stood, assumed a ready position, and waited. They would never presume to attack their mother unbidden, the matches only began once she dealt the first blow. She had given them an overarching command when they had started, that if she sensed that they were holding back in any way, she would drag them by the hair to _that room_ and lock them in for three days. 

A minor punishment with all things considered, Crona thought, as the metallic clashing of magic on hardened black blood filled the massive square room again. However, it fulfilled its purpose of drilling the importance of this new practice into their head right away. Medusa was never given to sharing the reasons behind her orders, nor to telling Crona what she was doing when she hid herself away in her lab all hours of the day and night. But this had to be leading up to something. The climax of this new project. Crona would need to work for it, just as hard as their mother was.

Not that the order to give it their all was really necessary in any case. It was taking everything they had just to stay on their feet; their mother was _relentless,_ and they pitied anybody who had had to face her blade in something more serious than a mere training exercise. 

_Get up,_ she had snapped the first time they fell. _Can't you prove to me that your years of training haven’t all been wasted effort? If I’d shown such a pathetic display when I was your age, I’d have been killed._

They wondered fleetingly what that blade had been used for, all those centuries ago. 

But it didn’t matter. Nothing in the past mattered, there was only here and now. The fast-pumping blood through their veins, the arrows and needles alike shooting out, canceling each other out, around them, the shiver that ran down their arms and over the rest of their body every time their blades clashed. They had felt the edge of that blade on them just as often as they had been slammed against the stone, but they hadn't yet been able to make their mother break a sweat, much less draw her blood. 

They had come close though, sometimes very close. And when they did, they could swear that for a split second, something sparked in their mother’s eyes and her face flashed into a smile...or a thing that resembled a smile, at any rate. It reverted back to her standard impassive glare so fast that Crona couldn't be certain whether it had happened at all.

(Or, a more dangerous thought, whether it wasn't just a reflection of what they themself felt about such an act.)

They weren't sure how much time had gone by so far, though it felt like the countless bouts were stretching on forever. They were too deep inside the castle for there to be any way to see the sky, so it might have been an hour or so or it could have been all day, before Medusa held back her sword rather than hold it on them as they picked their aching body up yet again. 

The intensity of her eyes on them as they stood before her, awaiting her next orders, turned their insides cold; had they not known they would be reprimanded sharply for it, they would have squirmed under them. 

_I don't know how to deal with such strong eyes..._

Crona resisted the urge to give their head a furious shake. No. They had never said that. It had _never happened._

They expected to be told to remain in this room to continue practicing by themself, but instead Medusa turned and walked away, inclining her head to indicate that they should follow. They did, out of the room, down the halls, down winding stone stairwells, until they reached a tiny black-walled room near the lab. It was smaller even than _that room,_ but it didn't look like a punishment at all. Soft blue lights, a white tile floor, a nest of blankets on the floor, their inviting look almost offsetting the IV bags and other medical equipment that were set up there too. 

Just another phase of the experiment.

“Strip,” Medusa ordered, stepping forward to check the substances in the bags. Both were thick liquids; one was black as their blood, and the other almost the same flat gold color as her eyes. Neither looked as though it would be pleasant to have running through one’s veins. “And lie down on the blankets.”

Crona did so with neither hesitation nor shame, thinking that this was a welcome change from the usual steel operating table they were herded onto, and wondering what the catch could be. Medusa knelt down, slid a needle into the vein of each arm and taped them into place with practiced speed, then set about clipping a small blood monitor to their finger and sticking electrodes onto their chest and temple.

“This will be easy on you,” she informed them. “The infusion process will take twelve hours. Do not move from here, but feel free to sleep if you like. And when it’s complete, I will bring you into the next room, where I will have spent those hours making final preparations. You’ll see what I’ve been working you towards then.”

That catch, most likely, if she was taking the time to talk to them about it. “Yes, Lady Medusa.”

She was silent for a moment, and they couldn’t place the expression on her face as she looked into their eyes. They wondered if she saw anything different in them, now, then dismissed the thought. “Good boy,” she murmured, then got to her feet and left. 

Crona laid back against the blankets -- thick, wider than they were tall, not soft but not uncomfortably rough either -- and decided that they would in fact try to sleep. They _were_ exhausted, after all, and they much preferred the experiments in which they were knocked out. The fear of what they might have to wake up to (mild soreness at best, and Ragnarok at worst) was outweighed by the relief of having escaped the pain just once. 

But it was not to be, this time. 

Both IVs worked quickly, and both seemed to grab their head and send it down, straight back into that spinning whirlpool. Back into the place they dreaded most: the abyss of their memories. The things they had been trying to push back rushed back at them full-force, but this time they were ready. The substances -- the _serum,_ they realized foggily -- were bolstering them, they told themself, fighting to wash away the things that still stained them. Some part of them cried out at it. The rest of them welcomed it, like a long-awaited exhale. 

The strong blue boy? Never seen. Never existed. Erased.

The sharp red boy? Gone, swept away in a bloody wind, his low voice dying in a shrill scream of pain. 

The warm woman, the kind voice, the black and gold...They had to fight back a surprisingly sharp twinge of guilt. No. Put that face out of their mind. Black and gold mean only one thing to them. They had only one mother.

M -- the _green-eyed girl._ No names. No names, most importantly of all. The only one their mind couldn’t make sense of even fueled by the serum. A nonentity? Dead and in pieces? None of her softness and none of her steel, none of her sweet voice and none of her battle cries. Only a final whimper, before they left her in pieces. 

_Soul...I’m sorry._

They could hear Ragnarok’s blade slice through the air and cleave through tender flesh, could practically feel her blood spatter their face...No more. No more. No more feeling like their heart was being ripped apart. No more being crushed under a weight of guilt. No more staggering around lost, two commanding voices clashing viciously for control in their head. No _more._

It didn’t hurt. No, it didn’t hurt. Not anymore. 

Then why...Why was their head still in a vice, why was their body being torn up from the inside out, why was the whirlpool pulling them, rushing them down and down and -- ?!

“It’s time, Crona.”

Medusa’s voice was as gentle as they’d ever heard it. They could hear their own tormented scream spiraling away into the night sky.

~0~

Their mother’s hands had been gentle, too, getting them disconnected from the tubes and monitors. She had no need to bandage the bleeding places, Ragnarok healed the tiny puncture marks as soon as the vein was empty. It was only a short distance they followed her, just to the next door down the hall, but they could feel the presence of something new the second they opened their eyes.

When Medusa led them into the room, they found themself face-to-face with something they had no name for. Something black and grey, something like ethereal shadow held together only by sheets of steel, something drenched in madness. Something not quite like Ragnarok and not like Crona, but close enough to both.

Medusa was saying something. Making introductions, they supposed. Madness Fusion. Black Clown. Black Blood. 

Nothing that mattered. They understood.

The Clown smiled at them with a rictus grin. One arm lifted as if by a puppeteer’s string, the hand extending to Crona.

_Will you let me be your friend, Crona?_

No voices. No names. No words. The static screaming inside their head encompassed everything, and they would live alone inside that hell. 

Crona reached up to take the offered hand. The instant their hands made contact, the Clown fell apart, rushed itself in a concentrated wave of madness, shadow, black blood, into their willing veins. They closed their eyes, and allowed it to wash them away, far away, into a place where their fear would be gone. The darkness engulfed them, and they were home.


End file.
